


take the long way home

by myhandisempty



Series: kink meme fills [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Went out lookin' for something I needed, thought I found it, turned out to cause me more trouble than it was worth.” Story of his life, really.</p>
<p>Normally, when he has an itch to scratch, picking up a Dom in whatever random city they're in hasn't been a problem for Dean. This last one, though, really left him high and dry, so he half-reluctantly calls Roman to help collect the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take the long way home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at the Wrestling Kink Meme:
> 
>  
> 
> _Dean does his best to keep the fact that he's a sub secret from Roman. And he does a pretty good job of it too, until one day a dom dean picked up kicks him out without any after care. Dean goes into sub drop/crash and has to call Roman for help._
> 
>  
> 
> From the POV of a person in a slightly altered mental state, with a bit of self-hate sprinkled in, so if you find that triggering or disturbing, should probably skip this one.

It’s cold outside, so far beyond cold that he doesn’t even feel it, but his bones know it’s there. They’re shaking underneath his skin so violently he wonders if they can rip it apart, his arms uncovered and exposed to the air because he left his jacket behind when the door was slammed in his face and he’s been wandering aimlessly for so long he doesn’t remember where behind was, let alone how to get there.

 

He recalls the sting of a belt against his back and ass, leather over and over and then the metal of the buckle, rough hands pulling and pushing his head at uncomfortable angles, nails digging into skin, repeated slaps to the face, and it feeling _good_ , feeling like what he needed. Now, Dean wants to be sick, wants to throw his trembling mess of a body onto the ground, let the aches and soreness consume him like he deserves for enjoying something so backwards and wrong, for needing pain to feel pleasure, for feeling pleasure from it at all.

 

Now, he needs—he needs something that isn’t his to ask for, but he’ll plead for it anyway. He’s already torn, ripped apart raw, and there’s little more effort required to shred himself into even smaller pieces.

 

Every few feet the sidewalk is plunged into darkness where the incandescent light of the street lamps can’t reach. Dean stops in one of those spots, pulls his phone out of his pocket, frowns at how small it looks in his hand. He tries punching the screen with his fingers, but they all seem too big to hit the buttons. They’re shaking too much, anyway—he’s managed to unlock the screen and open the weather, stock, and music apps, but not the one he wants. He can feel bile rising in his throat, his heart floating up with it, too, beating faster and faster and choking the breath out of him with each expansion of muscle. Dean collapses against the building behind him, runs his hand through his hair. He tries to concentrate on the sensation of his fingers sliding against his scalp, but it doesn’t feel like much of anything, his own body.

 

He holds the large, round button with his thumb, manages to mumble at the robotic voice that responds, “Call—call Roman.”

 

The ringing in his ear isn’t like the one he heard earlier tonight—this one lets Dean know he’s succeeded in his task, rather than digging himself further into a hole. Maybe he’s doing that too, though. He’s always known there’s only so much of him Roman will be able to take. Dean is constantly trying to make sure he fills that quota as far down the road as possible. This is a lot to handle, this part of him he’s hidden. Might finally be the last pavement that needed laying for Roman to run away.

 

The click of the line connecting cuts the third ring in half. “Hey man, I was just watching this documentary about the craziest animals in Australia. You’d love it. We’ll need to find it on TV again, sometime.” Roman always answers the phone like that, like every conversation is just a continuation of the last, right where they left off. It makes Dean want to laugh, cackly and with abandon, high with it, the way so many things about Roman make him feel, except for how it makes him want to cry, this time, too.

 

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t know if there are even words that exist anymore other than _help_ , other than _you make everything better, fix this, too_ —it’s why he called, but he just can’t say it. He can’t say it—he’s already been let down once tonight, and he might just curl up in a ball, cocooned by blankets and sheets, and never come out again if Roman does the same.

 

“—Dean? You there?”

 

No. No, he’s not. He’s here, bathed in garish neon light and the rattling of passing cars’ tires over the drawbridge grating, not _there_ , spread out on the bed beside Roman, laughing about sugar gliders and frilled lizards, and nothing has ever seemed so wrong in his life.

 

“Don’t know where I am,” he forces out, the words feeling thick on his tongue, clinging to the sides of his mouth like bitter syrup. Dean can feel the moment Roman’s mood changes, can hear the whoosh of air leaving his lungs that signifies the shift from relaxed happiness to quiet concern, except nothing about Roman’s worry is ever truly silent. The air around him buzzes with it, with the apprehension that he can’t quite hold in, and Dean can hear it crackle over the line. It still amazes him, that he can elicit that sort of feeling in Roman, that something so powerful is all for him.

 

There’s a pause before Roman speaks again. Dean fills it with shaky breathing. “You outside?” At Dean’s affirmative hum, he continues. “Find the nearest corner, give me the street names. I’ll come find you.” Straightforward, no questions. Dean appreciates that, though he knows Roman will be expecting plenty of answers later.

 

He’s still dizzy, stumbling a bit the few feet to the intersection in front of him. He squints up at the street signs, reads them off to Roman, who promises to be there soon but refuses to let Dean off the phone. With all the shit Dean puts him through, he wouldn’t let himself off without anything, either. The tremors in his legs are so bad he sinks to the ground, sitting on the dirty sidewalk holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder by allowing his head to loll to the side. Roman keeps talking to him, trying to engage Dean in conversation, and the sound of his voice is comforting, but he can’t bring himself to do much more than listen. This could be the last time he ever hears Roman sounding so open, so caring—realistically, with the two of them, every time could be the last—and he wants to soak in every little bit of it he can.

 

"Think I see you," Roman finally says, after what could be an hour or could be five minutes. There are at least six sets of headlights traveling toward him, but he can instantly tell which ones belong to his car. Roman is something Dean knows in his bones—his presence gives them the strength to stop shivering, to push him back to his feet.

 

His phone stowed away, Dean stands, wavering ever so slightly in place as he watches Roman pull to the curb and park. He makes an attempt to keep still, to stand tall, but the harder he tries, the more he feels like he's going to collapse again.

 

Roman is out of the car and nearly right in front of him between one blink and the next. He barely feels real, connected to the world, at all, but Roman’s hands are soft against Dean’s face when he cups it, and one runs through his hair in the motion Dean tried to imitate earlier but failed to capture. His eyes close of their own accord, and he’s barely able to stop himself falling into Roman’s arms.

 

“Think I made record time over here,” is the first thing he says, and Dean wants to drown in the velvet tones of his voice. Wonders if it’s possible, if anyone’s ever tried.

 

“Glad you did,” Dean murmurs, opens his eyes again to watch Roman, who laughs gently at him in an attempt to hide the edge of hysteria there. _I did that_ , Dean thinks, _I made him sound that way_ , and if the ground would just open up and swallow him whole, at this point it would be sweet relief.

 

Roman lightly rests his forehead against Dean’s, both hands cradling his jaw once again. It’s more than Dean feels he deserves, but he can’t help the sigh that slips out of his parted lips at the gentle touch. “You gotta let me know when you’re going out to get lost and wasted, Dean. Fucking scared me.”

 

“I—” Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that, how to tell Roman the truth, because he owes the other man so much, an explanation the very least of it, but it will change things, he knows that. It’s why he’s kept this hidden from Roman, when he shares so much else. He just wants to hold on to this one moment. Just this one, then they can get in the car and everything else can be washed away in the impending storm. It’s building, Dean can feel a pain, so similar to those of creaky, arthritic joints, in his chest—he’s seen it coming in the distance, since the day he first looked over at Roman and realized he was something that could never be replaced, and all Dean can think now, looking into those chestnut eyes, is _not yet, I’m not ready_. “Yeah,” he finishes, lamely, instead.

 

Roman herds him into the car, supporting more of Dean’s weight than is strictly necessary, scowling and flipping off the drivers who blare their horns on the way past. "Where the fuck is your jacket?" he swears, and Dean just shrugs slightly because it's the best answer he has. Roman turns the heat up all the way when he doesn't find an abandoned one in the back seat. Before he pulls away from the curb, he brandishes a water bottle from the center console somewhere, uncapping it and handing it to Dean, who can’t do much better than stare down at it as if it’s some exotic creature he’s never seen before. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s holding it, why Roman gave it to him.

 

“Figured you could use it,” Roman shrugs, finally putting the car in drive and heading back to the hotel again. “Combat that hangover, tomorrow.” His heart's going to fucking burst out of his chest, Roman must be able to hear that, the way it's nearly clawing at the side of his rib cage for just a chance to be near Roman. Dean takes a short swallow from the bottle, but his throat feels scratchier than ever and he's emptied the thing before he can stop. Roman smiles at him dotingly, and Dean is fairly certain that that one simple expression is the best thing he's seen all week.

 

"Not drunk," he finally admits when there's nothing left to do but talk. Any other movement seems too daunting, and Roman's eyes pin him in place after he starts to speak. "'S more complicated than that."

 

Roman's lips curl down into a frown, chasing away his smile and the initial thrill of contentment Dean had felt with it. His voice, his face, are the first things that have cut through the fog, since, and while his pleasure is a simple high Dean would have never imagined, his disapproval is equally and oppositely stinging. "You take something?"

 

"No," he replies immediately, barely biting back the _Sir_ that wants to follow it, pinching at the flesh inside his wrist. Nothing outside of him feels like anything, nothing except Roman. Dean concentrates on that lifeline, tries to steady himself now as much as he can. Looks Roman full in the eyes, though it hurts not to have his head bowed, because he needs to see the concern there, just. Just in case. "Went out lookin' for something I needed, thought I found it, turned out to cause me more trouble than it was worth.” Story of his life, really—when it comes to knowing what’s best for himself, Dean is awfully confident and headstrong, but not very dependable. When it comes to knowing what’s best for anyone.

 

He’s confused Roman, that much he can tell. “What do you mean?” the other man questions him over the rhythmic clicking of the engaged turn signal, the soothing metronome disappearing as they enter a dimly lit parking garage. “What did you need?” Dean can't quite keep his breathing steady, rushing out of him too fast.

 

The car’s stopped, Roman staring and waiting for an answer. Dean wants to go inside, have this discussion there, but he can’t think of how to ask. There must be some trace of it on his face, however, because Roman _understands_ , he opens the door and walks far enough away from Dean that their hands aren’t quite touching, balances him when he stumbles, uncoordinated, out of the elevator. He’s situated on one of the beds in the room, another bottle of water pushed into his hands, and then Roman’s at his side, their elbows bumping.

 

He’s nothing but patience, is Roman, sitting so close that strands of his hair are blending into the black of Dean’s t-shirt, brushing against his arm. The space where they meet is humming with worry, pouring out of Roman with every pump of that open, bleeding heart—still, he does nothing but wait, giving the choice to Dean.

 

“I have a—certain appetite,” he starts, fighting the desire to rest his head on Roman’s shoulder, to calm his own anxieties vibrating just under his skin. “I. I like pain? Which probably isn’t news, but, I crave it, get off on it, y’know?” Dean grimaces even as he says it. “No, you wouldn’t know, would you, but. I go out, sometimes, and find people to, like, dominate me, to make me hurt.” He scrubs his hands over his eyes, rubbing them hard—he’s drained, and Roman is silent, beside him, not making a sound. “That’s so fucking _sick_ , I know, but sometimes I just _need_ it, and then, afterwards, I get a little far gone, need certain things to, like, bring me back, and this asshole didn’t give that to me, and I’m—”

 

It’s so many words, and they’re hard to string all together. He skirts around phrases, avoids technical terminology—the word _dominate_ hurt enough coming out of his throat, and he’s not sure he could force the term _aftercare_ out if he tried. But Roman has to know what he’s talking about, sitting perfectly still, and in the space between his heartbeats, Dean starts to shake again, next to him.

 

It’s the end, it has to be, because Dean is disgusting in a lot of ways that _don’t_ matter but this is beyond that, something he never wanted Roman to know, that sometimes he’s weak and needy and he _likes_ it. That he’s weak, all the time, because of it, but especially now, practically crying to Roman because someone didn’t treat him the way he wanted.

 

“What specific things do you need?” Roman asks, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He’d hoped, but never expected, he’s terrified to ever expect anything from Roman and he’s terrified to get it, too—both leave him feeling winded and scraped raw. “I mean, I don’t want to assume.”

 

Dean can do nothing but turn to him and gape. Roman’s eyes are so soft, just like his hands were, when they touched Dean, and he loses all words. Roman gives a soft huff, just a puff of a not quite exasperated breath, and with the slightest of smiles, slides his hand into Dean’s hair again, shifts and pulls Dean’s head to rest on his lap. It’s not at all the kind of _afterwards_ Dean is used to, fists punching into pillows and _no touching, just verbal abuse_ , something familiar and easy to laugh off, coming from strangers—it’s better, better because it’s Roman, and Roman _matters_ , isn’t just a means to an end, and Roman is touching him gently and not like something vulgar and revolting.

 

“You’re not sick,” he murmurs, and Dean tries to shake his head, but Roman holds it in place so tenderly, in such juxtaposition to the way it was twisted around earlier tonight, smoothing his bangs away from his face, that Dean thinks if he were someone else, someone normal, he could cry. He wonders, futilely, if there was ever a time he wasn’t fucked up, like in high school, or something. What it would be like if he’d had Roman then. “No, you’re not. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, Dean. _Nothing_ ,” he says more forcefully, but still just as quiet, when Dean attempts to cringe away.

 

He closes his eyes, an internal battle raging inside him, because Dean loves this, but he hates it, and he doesn’t want to have to choose. It’s easier, this way, to concentrate on simply cataloging the sensations as they come. Fingers tousling his hair, occasionally skimming over his jaw or fabric covered collarbone. The scratchy hotel comforter under the palm of his hand. The darkness becoming more pronounced as the bedside lamp clicks off. Roman’s voice underlying it all, a rushing brook of sound running over him.

 

“You deserve things that make you feel good. You do, even if they don’t make sense to other people, even if they don’t make sense to you. You are worthy of good things, and you deserve someone who cares enough to make sure you get them properly.”

 

Dean bristles at the words, in the beginning, but finds himself relaxing into the touch, into the cadence of each sentence. Roman massages his chest gently, easing the tension he feels. This is what he wanted, after all, what he can admit he was hoping for, when he reached out. Roman pulls them further onto the bed and Dean follows, soaks up the warmth as a blanket is draped over his bottom half.

 

It gets hard to concentrate on specific words, after that, but they keep falling from Roman’s mouth like he could never run out of ways to praise Dean. Dean would think it was all fake, a cruel cosmic joke at his expense, something else just waiting to be ripped away, if it weren’t for the fervent tone of his voice. Roman kisses his cheekbone, presses fingers hard enough into the meat of Dean’s shoulder to ground him, remind him he’s here. Finally, another kiss pressed to his forehead, and the words stop, Dean watching the black and white patterns shifting behind his closed eyes, but Roman’s the only thing he sees when he opens them.

 

Dean blinks lazily up at him, gaze then traveling down to where Roman’s hand has wrapped around his wrist. He can’t even begin to count all the ways the two of them are connected, beyond that, thinks that if anything about him is infinite, it must be them. For the first time, Dean feels like that could be okay.

 

He sits up, now, and Roman lets go of his arm, dropping his own hand to the side. Dean rubs the skin where his fingers just rested, wonders if this connection is broken now, as easily as that one, but Roman’s eyes are so earnest and Dean’s always fallen far too easily.

 

When he finds his voice, finally, he regrets it.

 

“You done being such a sap?”

 

“Depends,” Roman replies, leaning back in his own space of the bed, arching off it as he stretches. If he’s bothered by Dean’s dismissal of the situation, he doesn’t let it show, and Dean is thankful for that. “You done being a pain in my ass, calling me at all odd hours of the night?” And this is almost familiar, good in a different way, so Dean smirks and shakes his head, hair falling back over his eyes.

 

“Nah. You know me, always good for another fight.” He strips off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, can feel the stare on the forming bruises that must cover his back before he lies down himself.

 

“Yeah,” Roman says, almost amused, like this has all been an average night for him, for them. It’s only after his eyes run over the length of Dean’s body again, stopping for a moment too long on his face, that Dean hears the crack in his voice where it breaks. “Yeah, you are.”

 

He flips on the TV, a heavily accented voice dictating the feeding habits of Goliath bird-eating spiders, and Dean chuckles, low and soft, tucks his head into Roman’s side.


End file.
